


Queen of Spades

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, F/M, Manipulation, Prisoner of War, Rough Sex, Star Trek: Into Darkness, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 14:01:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carol’s visited by her captor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen of Spades

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Barbayat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbayat/gifts).



> A/N: **Warning:** This is a very dark story that involves confusing feelings from manipulative rape. Please proceed with caution and be wary of your own comfort zone and triggers.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The worst part of all of it is that it’s _not_ so horrible, not so _unbearable_ as what her father would’ve done. 

If she’s honest with herself, Carol doesn’t mind the tiny space all that much. She’s used to admiral privileges, of course, but it’s never something she’s asked for—just something she’s _given_ , under the brash assumption that she’s too good to live like everyone else. Now, she’s in a drab, small set of crew quarters: one simple room with a bed on one end and a desk beside it, a Synthesizer on the wall next to the door and a small but functional bathroom off to the side, the door slid shut. She doesn’t think there are any security cameras in there like she’s found in this room, but that knowledge doesn’t help her. She has no tools to work with, nothing to fashion for use in an escape. The console and wall panels are so thoroughly locked out that all of her best efforts to hack them have failed. She’s an intelligent woman, but, apparently, her captor is better. 

She knew that going in. He’s better at seemingly everything. He hasn’t responded to any pleas of reason, hasn’t been open to any discussions, he won’t be bargained with and he won’t give away information. Carol’s too old to threaten to starve herself like a five year old until he lets her out; she’s painfully aware that her life isn’t much of a bargaining chip. To anyone else but him, it might’ve been, but now the only person she’s worth anything to is down in the brig. (And for that, she’s also marginally grateful.) 

When Khan had an airtight grip on her father’s head up on the bridge two weeks ago, Carol was sure his life was over. But her scream, that first, initial plea, ear splitting and shrill, had meant something. The brig is as merciful a fate as her father could’ve gotten. 

It pains her to know that it’s also well deserved. It hurts to think of her father as a man willing to murder a ship full of innocent people dedicated to the Federation, but he would’ve if Khan hadn’t won. He was willing to start a war that would end countless more lives. He locked her out of everything, poured himself into his work and weapons, and if she’s honest, she’s not entirely sure that the man down in the brig _is_ her father anymore—the man she knew seems to have slipped into thin air. 

Still, if she’s a good girl, there is a hope that she can free that man in the brig. Why else would Khan keep him alive? They’re useless now. Both of them. Khan has his crew back—awoken by Dr. McCoy under the threat of Captain Kirk’s death—and he has this ship. He’s going to God knows where with everything he needs to conquer. He’s an intelligent man—she’s seen it with her own eyes—strong and brilliant in every department, and it’s unlikely he requires her weapons expertise. The only thing left is the vague interest he’s shown; (or at least what she thinks he’s shown) maybe she’s meant to be some sort of consort, held to repopulate whatever Khan’s crew is. There are others capable of pregnancy in his crew, surely. But there’s still something in the way he looks at her that...

Carol sighs. There isn’t much to do these days other than contemplate her new status in life. She strolls past the desk and pulls the drawer in the wall open, flipping through Synthesizer chips. She isn’t hungry, just bored. It’s a bad habit of hers, but he’s from a more primitive time—maybe if she gets large enough, he’ll consider her less desirable. 

Her fingers stop abruptly, then slip away. No, she doesn’t want to be less desirable. She sighs and tsks to herself in aggravation. She feels like a traitor. She hates this, but not as much as she could. 

She can’t leave, even if she were stupid enough to try. The thin chain slithering from her ankle towards the bedpost, bolted to the ground, doesn’t quite stretch all the way to the door. She can get to the bathroom, and she can get to food, and she can jog in place and roll around and do whatever else she wants, but mostly, she’s useless. The only clothing she’s been provided with is replicates of her standard issue blue mini-dress, minus the black garments underneath. The uniforms zip up in the back, and though it’s always difficult to pull the backs all the way up, at least she can get them on and off. She hasn’t been provided underwear, which is just as well—she’s not sure how she’d get into her panties, and she can hardly move enough to warrant a bra. She’s not sure what she’ll do when her period strikes, but as Khan doesn’t seem as monster-like as she first expected, perhaps he’ll provide her with the modern instrumentation to keep it in check. Or at least, she might be able to appeal to the next guard that checks in on her, should it be someone in a similar circumstance. 

Mostly out of a lack of anything else to do, Carol returns to the computer console. The desk chair is steel and uncomfortable, like most of the furniture, the desk oddly angled and the computer clunky. This is a functional ship, not a gallery one. She begins to scan the few files she has access to for what feels like the millionth time, looking for holes. 

When that proves useless, she reverts to checking the captain’s log, something that she tries to avoid but always comes back to. It’s a mockery of her father’s job, she thinks, for Khan to keep such a thing. But he studiously does so anyway, with all the standard reports that any starship captain would. ...Except his report to no one but himself, as though paving a new future and writing history as it happens. 

In her head, she reads it in Khan’s voice, which is something she really wishes she wouldn’t. It makes her enjoy something that she shouldn’t. It says all the prisoners aboard are still in decent, negotiable condition—that would be her, her father, Captain Kirk, and Mr. Scott, as far as she knows—and that gives her a sense of relief. Nothing is mentioned of future plans, but then, she imagines that if it were there, it would be edited out of what she’s given access too. Still, she completes the rest: routine coverage of various departments now overseen by Khan’s crew, several decisions for upgrades, and Khan’s thoughts on his crew’s productivity and suggestions. She could stop reading any time, but the voice in her head compels her onwards. 

That voice always stopped her, the one or two times she bumped into him—John Harrison— _Khan_ —in her father’s office. He would rarely say more than two words to her, but it would always be enough to force a second look, force her to bite her bottom lip and _wonder_. If she’d known then what she knows now, things might’ve been different. 

Carol’s not the sort to harp on regrets. She closes the console down and sighs again, leaning back in the chair and wishing, perhaps, that she were stronger. Wishes there were something more she could do. Maybe she’ll take a hot shower, and stay under the water for so long that it drains as many resources as possible, getting her revenge that way. 

She chuckles softly at her own silliness. 

Then she stops abruptly, a hand shooting halfway up to her mouth—she doesn’t want to show her mirth when the door opens.

She won’t even smile, and she tightens herself into a stoic frown, sitting up straight in her steel cage. The door slides shut behind him, his iridescent eyes automatically flickering past her. He looks... livid.

His posture is sharp, presence heavy; his face is fuming—something’s set him off. Probably her father. It almost makes her shiver just to look at. He’s a dangerous man on the best of days, and when irate, that power is almost palpable. It sets her hair on end and makes her fingers curl into her palms, her breath hitching. He watches the console, then her face. 

A smirk curls over his perfect bow lips, and he asks in that deep, drawling voice from her private fantasies, “Did you enjoy my log?” He steps closer, taking his dark aura with him.

Carol isn’t stupid enough to lie and say she didn’t read it. She opens her mouth and wants to be honest, wants to say with a biting certainty that he’s _not_ a captain. That isn’t something that can be self-appointed. He’s a renegade in a stolen ship. 

But today isn’t the day to spar with him, she can tell. He looks like he could snap a greater person than her in two, and Carol doesn’t want to fan those flames. She doesn’t answer. 

He comes closer, closer, with no chain to hinder him, and Carol slips off the other side of the chair, wanting to slink away. But she knows there’s nowhere to go, and like a telepath, he asks her, “Where are you going to run to?” His voice is so silky smooth, even in his displeasure. But it sounds like he’s laughing at her. Perhaps that’s what she’s on board for: a stress-ball for when the inevitable problems stack up to too much and Khan needs something to punch. 

The next step he takes backs her into the bed. She can feel the mattress digging into the back of her knees. Her heart’s beating faster, just like it always does when he’s in the room. She’s not certain it’s just fear. He’s bigger than her, taller, with broad shoulders and a strong frame and sharp eyes that seem to bore into her, an unusual, handsome, chiseled face and swept-back dark hair, dressed in tight black from head to toe. It’s simple attire—standard Starfleet pants and the black undershirt with the silver logo in the corner, but the way it stretches across his pecs makes it look like model-wear. He’s like that all over. Gorgeous and powerful, terrifying. He stops right in front of her. 

When she breathes out, her breasts brush his chest. It makes her shiver, reacting more than him. She wishes she had a bra. He’s going to touch her. She knows he is. He’s her captor, and he hasn’t been present enough, beat her hard enough, had her long enough for her to even claim Stockholm Syndrome; she’s got no excuse for her head. He’s a monster and she doesn’t hate him like she should, doesn’t hate this. Whatever ‘this’ is. 

He lifts a hand up to the side of her face. She flinches away on instinct, but otherwise doesn’t move. Her head stays to the side, eyes scrunched closed. The soft pads of his fingertips brush over her cheekbones. A part of her is too scared to move. His breathing sounds like an angry bull’s. His fingers graze her skin too sharply. She thinks he might break her if he actually tries to hold her. She’ll be a tiny china doll in a giant’s hands. Her arms are rigid at her sides. She shouldn’t want him to lean forward...

“A simple death is too good for him,” Khan snarls suddenly. Carol winces, half from the sheer venom in his voice and half expecting to be hit, but a blow doesn’t come. When she opens her eyes, he’s glaring right through her. “I want to make him _suffer_ , and I can’t think of a more fitting way to do it than to defile the one thing he loves most, just like he did to me...”

Something twists in Carol’s stomach; he’s going to fuck her for revenge. Tell her father about it. Maybe make her father watch. She knows she’s on camera. She’s shaking, but she tries to hold firm: a Starfleet officer undergoing simple torture. She doesn’t say anything; that will make it real and nothing she could say would change anything.

His smirk twitches with something—maybe sadness, but more likely laughter. She can’t imagine he’s going to regret this, that a man so sure of himself would ever regret anything. He leans forward, and she tilts her head away again, letting him get painfully close. He tilts his head, his lips level with her ear, his breath warm against her cheek. 

He whispers, voice so calm and so _hot_ , “I wouldn’t do this if you didn’t want it.”

That changes it.

His arms are around her suddenly. Carol gasps, and her waist’s pulled in tight, body smashing into his, her arms darting out to grab his shoulders for support. One arm stays locked around her middle, the other climbing her back, holding it in, and his tongue darts out to trace the shell of her ear. It steals Carol’s first breath, and she needs a second attempt to manage a weak, “I don’t want this—”

“ _Liar_ ,” he hisses, so fierce that she buckles. She pushes lightly at his shoulders to show her protest, but when he kisses down her jaw, it makes her knees weak. She feels partially horrible, like a stereotype out of some cheesy novella, but she’s turned on, too, and that makes her sick. His chest is so strong against her, his body so _warm_ , and there’s a sizeable bulge at his crotch. He can’t be that hard already, but maybe he’s just that big all the time. Oh, she’s sure he’s that big. Carol bites her bottom lip and tries not to think about it. She’s never been boy crazy. She tries to think of weapon schematics instead, tries to look up at the ceiling and take herself out of this. 

He pulls her back in when he reaches her neck. She had no idea she was sensitive there. She had no idea he was quite _so_ talented. He nips at her skin once, then runs his tongue over it, then opens his mouth wide and sucks on her, his long fingers petting her back. She’s arched into him. She’s standing because he’s holding her, not because of her bare feet next to his boots. Her dress feels too thin. She can feel his crotch pressing into hers, with no underwear to protect her, and she’s absolutely horrified when her hips try to roll into it, try to rub into him. She makes herself stop. Her fingers are trembling against his shoulders. She doesn’t dare move them. She should try and strangle him. She should... she should...

He pushes her away with such force that she stumbles backwards, falling onto the bed and just barely managing to catch herself, pushing up on her arms. But she doesn’t try to stand again. She looks up at him, breath already laboured. 

He’s unaffected but burning. He still looks feral, but now it’s more hunger than anger. 

Her legs are apart. She’s blushing hard, and she slams her knees together. She feels shamefully easy. He looks so, so good, standing there, towering above her, radiating supremacy. He looks like he might grab her neck and snap it. He nods towards the pillows and hisses, “Lie down.”

“No.” She’s proud of herself, even if her voice shakes. 

He growls, “Then I’ll fuck you standing.”

He grabs her wrist so fast that there’s no time to resist, and he jerks her back up to her feet. She tumbles into him, but he’s caught her midway. He grabs the back of her head, his fingers fist in her hair, she cries out and he yanks her head back. She’s still struggling to get purchase, though he grabs her waist again, holding her so easily. He goes straight for her neck. This time his bites are harder, not teasing or coy. He sinks his teeth into her throat and sucks her hard, and Carol gasps, grabbing at his shirt. If she keeps her head held back the way he wants her to, the pleasure of his attentions overrides the pain. She has to stand awkwardly on her toes for him to reach, for her not to collapse in his arms. It’s awkward and difficult, and she thinks he might be doing it on purpose to make her weaker. He makes his way down the line of her neck and dips his tongue into her collarbone, running along it and marking her shoulder. Carol’s breath is coming hard, but she tries to focus, tries not to get sucked in. 

Years of self-defense training alone help her snap out of it. She jerks back far enough to smack him right across the face, and he grunts with the impact but doesn’t move. He’s still holding her hair, and it hurts from her pulling at it. He _looks_ at her, bright eyes clouding dark. 

She holds his gaze and tries not to shake as much as she wants to. 

He lets go of her waist and swings his leg at her knees, and Carol yelps as it knocks her right over. She crashes to the floor in an ungraceful mess, rolled over before she can get up. He’s over her again, his arm at her back, pushing her face towards the cold floor. She closes her eyes as he straddles her; she should’ve kneed him in the crotch. 

As soon as her hands move, he’s grabbed her wrists, pinning them down. His legs hook over hers, although she doesn’t think she could kick her way out of this position. Between her breasts crushed against the floor and his weight atop her, it’s difficult to breathe, but it eases up when he stretches out. He flattens himself into her, all over, so she can feel the outline of his cock against her ass, and his hot breath is on the side of her face. 

“I should fuck you just like this,” he purrs, suddenly nothing but pure, unadulterated sex, so firm that she doesn’t dare protest. He makes it so _hard_ to resist, a voice like that and a body like this... his grip is so strong around her... “It’s more than you deserve, to be taken on the floor like the little bitch you are...”

“No,” Carol whimpers. It’s shamefully pathetic. Just a little word, so weak that not even she’s convinced she means it. He chuckles and bites her ear, as if in punishment for her lie. Then he’s kissing her instead, licking at her neck and nuzzling into her head grotesquely, like some wild wolf sniffing at its prey. Carol presses her forehead to the floor and closes her eyes. He doesn’t seem deterred. 

“But then,” he pauses, almost thoughtful, “Like this, we wouldn’t have a very good angle for the camera, would we? And I know that a naughty girl like you wants her father to see just how dirty she really is...” 

Carol whines. Suddenly she wants him to fuck her here, just like this. The last thing she wants is her father to see. She presses her ass up into him, half to keep his body blocking the cameras and half because she can’t resist. His smirk is practically audible. 

“You’re a bad little girl, Carol Marcus,” he hisses, so low that it makes her shiver. Again. His voice is always doing that to her. Fuck, it’s so _good_. How can a monster have such a perfect voice? “You’re a filthy slut at heart, tempting me the way you do... I have half a mind to give you what you so desperately crave...” 

_His touch._ She wants it, she does, and his words are horrible but almost hypnotic. Her shoulders stiffen and her fingers tighten into fists; she wants to resist and it’s so, so hard, because she doesn’t really want to at all. He’s the most attractive man she’s ever seen, and his power only makes it more so, and she’s always gravitated to men in charge. He’s the epitome of what her father once was, but so much more handsome and skillful and like honey in her ears...

One of his hands leaves her wrist, slithering down her arm, back along her body and ghosting over her dress. He reaches down to the top of her leg, and Carol’s eyes shoot open. He slips around beneath her, not right to the middle, but he strokes her inner thigh, slowly back and forth, his long fingers so close to the target. She doesn’t have panties to protect her; he could shift over and be inside her any moment. But he’s just teasing her instead. Carol’s free hand doesn’t move. 

He gently moves her hair away from the back of her neck with his nose, and then his lips are pressing into it, kissing before sucking, teeth tracing light patterns. Carol’s hand moves towards her mouth, and she covers it to stifle all her traitorous sounds. 

Her other hand is freed. He turns her face gently to the side. Somehow, it feels like all his anger’s gone, or at least, it’s been stealthily channeled elsewhere. He’s a master with masks. He shifts across her slowly, leaning down, and he hesitates—simply for show, she’s sure—before he presses their mouths together. 

He bites her lower lip, his hand slides right over her pussy, and she immediately bucks into him, moaning into his mouth. She’s wet from the sound of his voice alone. She is a slut, and her cheeks are burning, but there’s nothing she can do besides kiss him back, let him kiss her. She’s grinding his hand into the floor and struggling each time to _stop_.

He parts their lips to laugh and call her, “Whore.” She doesn’t glare at the old-fashioned slur; she winces. Any other man in the world, and she’d be snarling and striking out and twisting to break their nose. 

Khan kisses her neck again while he scrunches up her skirt, painful centimeter by painful centimeter, pushing it right up her waist. Her bare ass is right against him. She looks away. But she’s still bucking into him—his fingers aren’t breaching her, but his palm is rubbing in just the right way.

She whimpers when his hand slithers out from under her. She turns to stare over her shoulder. He’s climbing off, getting to his feet. 

He grabs her by the back of her dress like she weighs nothing, and he tugs her up only to slam her forward into the wall, his body pinning her down again. Her breasts feel beaten up, but her nipples are hard, chafing against the fabric of her dress. Her arms are braced against the wall, and she draws them closer, protecting her sides. She’s making herself smaller, armoured. He doesn’t kiss her again, doesn’t even try to kick her legs apart. 

He grabs the zipper of her dress—she can feel it lift up—but both of his hands are elsewhere on her. It takes her a second to realize he’s got it between his teeth. 

He drags it that way down her body, following the contours of her spine and sinking to his knees. The thought of him on his knees behind her makes her bite her lip, her throat wanting to groan. He gets to the waist and has to straighten out her skirt—that sinful mouth is so close to her ass. Her arms are shielding the sides of her breasts from view, and she keeps herself pressed tight to the wall; it’s all she has. These uniforms are too easy to get off, or at least, his replicates are. 

Maybe he had this in mind all along. 

Maybe he went home the first night he saw her and touched himself to the thought of her, like she did to the thought of him. If she had known, things could’ve been _so_ different. 

He finishes his job, and the fabric falls silkily from her body, held in place by her arms. 

He rises slowly back up to his feet, takes each of her arms one at a time, and loops the sleeves out of them. Carol doesn’t fight it; it’s useless.

Then her blue dress is just a puddle at her feet, and she’s got nothing but cool air on her skin. When he flattens into her again, she thinks he might fuck her right there. 

But he orders her, “Get on the bed, or I’ll throw you there.” She was wrong to think him not a captain. 

Carol keeps her arms crossed over her chest as she goes, covering what she can and not wanting to touch her crotch lest her fingers come away wet and she gives in to touching herself. She tries to keep her body angled so he won’t see her, but she’s hyper aware that he can see _everything_ , that she’s full of imperfections and she feels like her thighs are a little too thick and she hasn’t been working out enough to keep her stomach flat and she didn’t shave her legs this morning, just yesterday.

Of course, she tells herself that’s stupid. She’s about to get raped and shouldn’t be counting all her insecurities, but he looks so _perfect_ , and it’s all she can do. 

When she turns around, she makes an effort to glare at him. She’s blushing too, and she tries to be strategic as she climbs onto the bed, tries to cover herself with her legs, but it just feels awkward, and she’s near tears, glaring at him with a fierce intensity. He shouldn’t do this to her, shouldn’t have this effect on her. He’s still fully clothed, watching her sit. She shifts her legs to the side and leans against the faux-wood headboard, arms crossed over her chest. 

His knee lands on the mattress. The rest of him follows, moving forward like a wildcat on the hunt, shifting onto all fours. He grabs her knee and yanks her down, and her breath hitches as she’s dragged onto her back. Her head stops in the pillows. He climbs right overtop of her, casting her all in shadow. 

“Lights,” he purrs, “fifty percent.”

She hadn’t expected that. The tape would’ve been easier to view at full glare. Maybe it’s for her benefit; maybe it’s trying to make things more... romantic. She stares up at him, feeling even tinier with her arms drawn in. 

He leans down with that same odd hesitation as earlier, and they’re kissing.

Carol keeps her lips stubbornly closed, until he grinds his body down into her, and then she gasps as soon as his crotch presses in between her thighs. He takes the opportunity to plunge his tongue inside, and she can hardly even think about biting him. He kisses like a dream, so commanding that it’s all she can do to keep up. 

When he pulls her wrists away, it’s that still strange mix of firm but gentle that makes her comply. He pushes her hands into the mattress, his larger ones taking up all of hers, and he slips their fingers together to help pin them down. It helps and hurts in its own ways. It feels better, less terrifying, somehow, like this really is a scene of what she wanted. When she breathes out, panting as she is, her breasts brush against his strong chest, and when he grinds into her again, she feels it all over her body. She wants desperately to give in. 

She wants to be someone else—anyone but an admiral’s daughter with a duty to the Federation, a duty to not give in to her captor. She wants to be back on Earth, dating _John Harrison._

He releases her lips to trail back down her neck, and Carol licks her lips, resisting the urge to try and follow. His mouth makes its way down her chest, body ducking, a bit of his dark hair tumbles down and brushes over her skin. His tongue traces its way to her right nipple, and he kisses it and locks his lips around it. She’s gasping before he’s even sucking, and when he is, her hips are quivering, legs squirming beneath his. She arches up into him. He uses his teeth when he lets go, grazing the nub just enough to make her prickle under the stimulation. He gives her other breast the same treatment, clear eyes darting up to watch her. She looks up at the ceiling hurriedly, vainly attempting to control her breathing and pretending she wasn’t watching his handsome face. 

He’s smirking when he comes back up to her lips. “Aren’t we eager.” Her arms are shifted, high enough that he can grab both wrists easily in his fingers, the other arm running back down. It squeezes one breast when it passes, eliciting a sharp sound and continuing down her stomach. “I’m sure the admiral will like that, to see what a slut his daughter is for me, how much she’d like me to take her...”

Carol doesn’t want to look at him, but then his hand is over her pussy, and she can’t look away. His fingers cup her and massage her, growing wet with her shame, and she moans as he hovers just centimeters above, taunting her in that dripping-sex voice of his. “Perhaps I should breed you—I could use greater numbers, and I’m sure you would provide excellent young—”

“Shut up,” she snarls suddenly, surprising herself with the veracity. She doesn’t ever want him to stop talking; she wants that voice rolling over her every second of every day. But she’s not livestock, and she jerks her hands in his iron grasp. “You’re _sick_.”

She doesn’t know what kind of reaction she expected, maybe to be hit, but he dives down to kiss her with a new intensity that makes her hesitate and quiver. He doesn’t pull all the way back, just presses their foreheads together and hisses, face scrunched up with conviction and breath all over her face, “Then perhaps I should make you my queen. Would you like that better? Pretty, smart—you think you could handle me? You would almost be a worthy conquest if you weren’t from your father. Right now, you better serve me _crushed._ ”

A finger stabs suddenly up into her, blunt but unforgiving, and even as wet as she is, it isn’t easy—she clenches on instinct and cries out. He sinks deeper anyway, pushing and pushing until he’s in to the knuckle. Carol thinks she might be going mad. _Queen_. A blurry figure of herself draped over his lap on a throne flitters through her head, gone as soon as it came—his pistoning finger makes it difficult to concentrate. He’s fucking her while he talks, all low and dangerous. “No, you’re my ticket to that. I need you to suffer to hurt him. I should string you up naked in the corridor and let every man on this ship have a chance at you, just to make him cry.” Carol’s shaking her head, no, just him, she was on board when it was just him, and he laughs cruelly as another finger pushes inside, as he seems to pick up on her pleas. “But you wouldn’t like that, would you, pet? You just want me. Just want to be mine. You wish I would breed you, just for an excuse to see me again...”

She whines, “Shut up,” but she means, _fuck me._ His two fingers are scissoring her open, and they’re pleasuring her on the way, rubbing against her clit and plunging in and out at just the right angle. Of course he’d know just what to do. A third finger slips up inside, and she wants to ask him to just do it already; she doesn’t need this. How big is he? Maybe she does. Her thighs are pressing together around his hand. 

“Look at this,” he croons, and just like that, he’s back down from vindictiveness into sensual and intimate—he’s a maniac that covers everything. “You’re dripping wet for me.” The next angle of his fingers makes her whimper, and she makes an even sharper keening sound when all three digits slither away, pulling out. She’s left empty and convulsing, hips jerking uncontrollably. She stares down at his hand over his own crotch, moving down the zipper. 

The cock he pulls out of his black boxers makes Carol’s eyes widen. It is _big_. Bigger than that, mammoth. It’s pink and dark with need, veined and slightly curved, thick and long, handsome and glorious. It almost looks like it’s muscled, like he could do pushups with it. She knew it would. 

Carol’s head goes wild, throat dry. She’s never actively _wanted_ to suck cock before, but she can’t help but wonder what Khan’s tastes like, what it would feel like weighing down her tongue, though she surely wouldn’t be able to get even halfway down—she’s not very good at deep-throating, and it’s so, so huge...

He presses the mushroom head of it into her pink slit, glancing back up at her. 

She asks in a quiet whisper, “Are you going to use protection?” His smirk is all the answer she needs; she blanches. She tells herself it’s a show: it’s for the camera. He can give her the necessary pills or injections to safeguard her tomorrow. When she thinks of all those in his crew at his disposal, she can’t think he’d really choose _her_ for that. For anything. 

But he’s here with her right now, and even if it’s just to hurt her father, he looks like he’s having as much fun as she’s trying not to. 

She still feels dirty. She wants an injection first. Something. She drops her head back in the pillows and stares up at the ceiling, dim through the low light. He’s still fully clothed and she’s utterly naked, so at his mercy. There’s nothing she can do. She feels _owned_. He might as well slap a collar around her neck or burn his mark into her skin. 

He doesn’t need all that, it seems. He can own her with just his cock. 

He shoves it inside suddenly, brutally, so hard that Carol’s head tosses back, chest arching up, a scream wrenching through her body. She needed the stretching—he’s _huge_ —he parts her tight walls like it’s nothing and slides right up inside her and she shudders all around him. There comes a point where her body can’t take it, and it’s slowed to centimeter by centimeter, but it doesn’t stop, keeps pushing.

It seems to take a small eternity for it to get all the way inside her, and when she feels his heavy balls and coarse hair against her outer lips, she’d sigh in relief if she could. She’s still gasping. Her legs are parted and her feet are lifting into the air, the chain making a tinkling noise when it moves, her legs testing the angle, in a state of disbelief. She didn’t know she could be this _full_.

He bends to kiss her forehead. 

He lets go of her hands. 

Instantly, Carol’s arms are wrapping around him. There’s nothing else to do. There’s no use pushing him off, and if he moves now she won’t be able to take it, she’s sure; she’s not ready; she holds him in and grabs at his shoulder blades. Her fingers make fists in his shirt—it’s like she needs tangible proof that he’s real. His freed arm slips around her waist instead, and he uses the firm grip to hold her into him just as tightly. 

It also makes it easier to throw her up and down the bed, and the first thrust feels just like that. She’s being tossed over. He pulls halfway out and then he stabs in, and Carol’s whole body jerks with the motion, her breasts bouncing against him. She’s crying out, just like she did when he first pushed inside, and he rocks half out of her again, touching all the right places to make her shiver. She’s too empty for half a second, and then it’s all in again. 

The rhythm Khan sets is immediately fast, harsh, and relentless. He fucks her hard, so hard, slamming her into the bed on each thrust. Carol can barely hear the slapping sounds over her own groans and cries, over the blood rushing in her ears. Her fingers keep flexing in his shirt, grabbing at it feebly, trying to hold on. She can’t tell if the force of his thrusts is bouncing her back up into him or if she’s doing it herself. She feels like her entire body’s out of her control. She’s swept away in a sea of pleasure. He grinds his hips into hers just right, fucks her so deep, and she turns her head, doesn’t mean to, but they’re kissing again, and his mouth feels as good as it sounds. His tongue is his greatest weapon in every way, though his cock is close. Her head’s a foggy mess. She’s going to go insane. 

She’ll go insane for him. She’ll do whatever he wants her to. She wants to rip all his clothes off—feel his six-pack and his rough skin and all his calluses. It’s not fair that she doesn’t get to see him naked. She wants him naked. It’s difficult to release his back—her holding place—but she needs his shirt to be gone. She goes for the hem instead, and it’s a scramble to push it up. She shoves at his chest so he’ll stop kissing her, and he does. He lifts a few centimeters off with that infuriating smile across his talented, wet bow lips that make her just want to...

Carol adamantly ignores his smirk. She rolls his shirt up his stomach as best she can while he fucks her into oblivion. He doesn’t stop her, doesn’t help her. He lets the fabric get halfway up his body, scrunched under his armpits, and she can’t get it any further off, not like this. She doesn’t have enough control of her own body to start positioning his. But this’ll do. He’s muscled and tight, just like she thought he would be, but not too much, still soft. Her hands slide all over him. He lets her touch him, and when he leans down, she leans up, mouth already open. She can feel his grin against her but just keeps going. 

It’s too hot in here. Even without her clothes. She’s burning up underneath him—he’s not crushing her: he’s supporting his own weight, but he’s trapping her in, and he softly brushes back her hair and kisses her forehead. He kisses her cheek, her jaw, down to her neck—Carol tilts her head back and makes a pathetic whining sound. She’s so wet, so hot, and she doesn’t know how she’s still good to go. She can feel her orgasm on the horizon, thinks she’s been close for so long. She doesn’t want it to end though. When it ends, he’ll leave. She wants to cling to him and keep his cock buried inside her, his large, reassuring body blanketing her, his pretty face nuzzling into hers. She wraps her arms around his bare waist and holds him in. 

He pushes away, sitting up atop her. She tries to lift up, but a hand between her breasts forces her down, his other hand above her on the headboard. He seems to have a better angle this way—he rolls his hips and slams in with a new force—Carol screams. She tries to part her legs even wider for him, but that’s all she can do. Her insides are already convulsing around him. She grabs the sheets beneath her, then his knee, grabbing his pants, and then she’s feeling along the arm holding her down. She’s writhing in ecstasy. 

She wants him back, though. Wants to feel him, touch him. She wants his scent and his taste and she wants to be kissed again. He’s glancing to the side, up towards the ceiling, smirking wide. He’s smiling for the camera; she knows he is. She doesn’t care. Not right now. But he should be paying attention to her, and she moans, “Khan...”

“Carol,” he purrs, looking back at her so easily. His tone is silk. It makes her wet. So wet, so tight, he’s so, so big, in and out and filling her so full. It should never stop. She’d want it faster, want it harder, but it couldn’t possibly be so without breaking her in two. He seems to be waiting for more, like he wants her to beg. 

Carol’s not going to do that. Not with her mouth, anyway. She grabs at his shirt instead and tries to tug him down by it, and her fingers slide around the back of his neck, and she growls, “ _Khan._ ”

He lowers back down obligingly, squeezing her breast on the way and smashing their lips together. She isn’t keeping track of where his hands are. She’s fighting a battle with his tongue and loving how easily he wins. 

His fingers slip between their bodies, playing with her slit even as he plunges into it. One finger on her clit and one massive dick inside her channel is more than she can take—Carol _screams_. Her orgasm rips through her like a flood of lava, so much greater than any other she’s ever felt before. She didn’t know she could come so hard. He drew it out of her. He fucks her through it, riding it out, and she’s too high to care that she came first. 

When he comes, less than a second later, Carol takes it as a personal victory. _Her_ orgasm milks his out. She can feel it happening. She’s still twitching. She’s barely coming down. He grits his teeth and growls through them, grinding his forehead down against hers and slamming into her over and over. His cock seems to burst with a torrential flood that makes her gasp. It’s all over her immediately, wet and hot and thick and more and more, sloshed around by his fervent movements. She doesn’t even know how there’s room for it; she’s already so _full_. She can’t do anything but go limp in his grasp and take it. He fucked her stupid, and now she’s numb and weak. 

It takes a few more thrusts for them to thin out, for them to get shallower and shallower, slower and slower, until he finally stops. It leaves her panting and shivering. She’s staring blankly up at him. 

He lets go of her. He slips out—she winces. Her thighs instantly snap together, trapping in his cum and trying to make her feel less empty. She feels hollow. Gaping and incomplete. She doesn’t know what she wants. Her head comes back down, but her sanity doesn’t come with it. She intellectually knows that she’s a prisoner and he’s her master, and that is _not_ acceptable, but now it’s much harder to believe that. It’s harder to lie to herself. It makes her feel like a traitor. 

Chained to the bed by her ankle though she is, she could move if she wanted to. She doesn’t. She lies still while he climbs off of her, sitting up straight to roll his shirt back down and tuck himself back in, zipping up his pants. She sniffs. 

She might be crying. 

Her eyes are wet, at least. He came inside her with no protection. She already wants him desperately, with everything in her body—maybe she’ll grow to love him and only him, and she’ll serve the man that brought her father to his knees. ...Or maybe he’ll keep her like this, a slave for fucking on the side. 

She’s utterly ashamed, and the room is starting to feel cold again. Her cheeks feel wet, but she’s sweaty and gross all over. She sniffs again, and he looks over at her. 

For a fraction of a second, he’s frowning. Almost like regret. 

But that disappears into neutrality as quick as it came, and he bends down to leave a closed-mouth, lingering kiss on each of her cheeks. 

Then he slips off the bed and heads for the door, while Carol curls onto her side and tries to tug the blankets over herself. 

The door shuts behind him. 

She wants him to come back. 

She’d felt rapture a moment ago, now desolate, but that’s the way Khan is—the greatest man there is, and the most terrible.

She mumbles, “Lights off,” and she’s plunged into darkness.


End file.
